


Bridges Burning Bright

by romanticalgirl



Category: Bandom, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Come on baby, light my fire</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bridges Burning Bright

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Sundrenched Days and Starlit Nights - Pete/Mikey Happyfic Challenge](http://turps33.livejournal.com/1040026.html). Inspired by the quote _Changing the duration allows your ear to hear and respond differently_.

  
Mikey stashes the car somewhere out of sight, but easy to remember. He doesn’t know what he’ll be hauling when he comes back, and he doesn’t want to be caught searching for a ride. There’s not a key, just a modified jump start button that Ray manage and it’s a risk leaving it, but they’ve been spotted too many times for him to do this all on foot. It’s not him the Agents are after, but that doesn’t mean they won’t take him as a trophy, use him to get to who they really want.

He makes his way past blown out buildings and blown out Agents. There’s a chem cloud oozing in through an alleyway, and he swerves to avoid gas and stench. The burn of diesel hurts his lungs, but there are worse things to breath in, worse still to swallow down. There are body parts he can see if he looks close enough, so he tries not to. He’s tried to scrub burn of human hair and flesh off of his skin enough to know they don’t dissipate, so he gives the fried out skin and dust-like bones a wide berth.

He’s a long way from what’s serving as their home base right now, picking his way through the streets of what used to be Los Angeles. It was the first to go, followed quickly by other cities with creative and liberal bases. Oppression is easier when there aren’t leaders who can figure out how to make the masses stand up and fight. Some people survived, but that was over a year ago now, and surviving then was a fuck lot easier than surviving now.

The lock practically falls open in his hand, and he’s careful to keep it from clanking against the steel door. The ground around him is littered with rubble, asphalt cracked in places and melted in others. Pipes and wires look like ghosts hanging in the air at odd angles, and there’s silence everywhere. That’s been the hardest thing to get used to for Mikey. The complete lack of sound. No bugs. No birds. No distant echoes.

Pulling the door open seems like a cacophony, even though it’s just a wheeze of dust and the cold blast of nitro. He slips inside, pulling the door almost shut behind him. It doesn’t take too long for his eyes to adjust since there’s the faint green light emanating from the power cores. Nothing looks like it used to, but Mikey knows this place. It’s slate gray instead of black, and the red lights are all blown to pieces, out of commission even if there was electricity to run them. There are still a few tables and awkward angles and the few benches have been ripped and split, stripped of what little stuffing had been in them. He glances at the bar and debates seeing if there’s anything left when he hears it.

Music.

Television is the opiate of the masses, NewsAGoGo cramming information down their throats at all hours, none of it more than noise. People watch, transfixed, not realizing the cameras are on them all of the time, reality TV gone too far. It’s Big Brother on steroids and Survivor’s not playing on anybody’s set anymore. Survivor’s actually gone real. But this. He _knows_ this. Not in the sense that he knows real music differs from the background bullshit and muzak, but in the way that he knows this _song_.

The thing is, it’s not something they have in their library. They had it on vinyl, but they left the vinyl buried in a bomb shelter somewhere in Utah, hoping the heat and fucking dust wouldn’t destroy it, and maybe someday they’d have it all back again, play it out loud like a mother-fucking victory. He remembers the last time he heard this song, shivering in the night air as they buried fourteen fallen, using shovels instead of ray guns to open up the dirt.

He follows the sound, his boots leaving footprints in the dirt and dust. Everything glows in the green light, like some James Cameron sci-fi movie before he went to shit. He stops as the sound skips, the same line repeating. Vinyl. Fucking vinyl.

“Fuck.” He hears the muttered word and then the rest of the song goes on unimpeded, notes hanging as it ends. There’s a puff of static and then all Lou Reed’s rough voice scratches along Mikey’s spine. There’s no other noise until he finds himself blinking at the business end of a gun, though his expression doesn’t change.

“Hey, Pete.”

The gun doesn’t so much as waver. “Mikes.”

“What do you have the needle weighted down with?”

“A penny.”

“Shit.” Pennies had seemed to disappear overnight, melted down and used for something no one would admit to and no one could explain. “You had to have had it on you.”

“Talisman. 2008.”

Mikey understands talismans. He has a pair of plastic frames and a tiny cat sweatshirt somewhere in his bag, hidden out of everyone’s sight, including his own. 2008 was the year Bronx was born. A talisman means Mikey doesn’t have to ask where he is. “You’re broadcasting.” The gun’s still in his face and, while he gets the need to be cautious, it’s kind of irritating, not to mention distracting. “And you’re not going to shoot me.”

“I could.” There’s a soft whir as Pete clicks the safety and the gun powers down. It’s not one of the prototypes. It’s the real fucking deal, manufactured and, if it weren’t for the jimmied power center, completely traceable. It glows blue instead of red even with the safety on. “I’ve picked up your brother’s broadcast a time or two. Inciting the masses.”

“Music was made for the revolution.” There are three turntables, but he can see only one of them works. Two tape decks and a reel-to-reel look like they’ve been held together with spit and hope and baling wire and there are stacks of music lining the walls. “Shit.”

“Last stand.” Pete shrugs and goes back as the song comes to an end, taping a button on the reel-to-reel so that John Lennon’s voice wavers through a Revolution. “Agents caught up with Patrick and Ryland outside Phoenix. Pictures plastered all over the feed. Fucking CherriCola standing there with a wanted sign asking, ‘have you seen these men?’ before the camera panned over to them on the floor while she strobed them solid on live TV. Getting fucking high off the fumes. Fucking cunt.”

So many lives lost. Mikey feels every one like a weight on his shoulders, worse than the ghosts of the Paramour hitching a ride on his psyche and making him see what wasn’t there. What _is_ here is a fucking nightmare. Even his nightmares can’t compare. “Gabe?”

A hint of a smile tweaks Pete’s lips, and Mikey finds himself desperate to see the real thing. “Captain Hedonist rocking the airwaves of the east coast. Drink up, little kiddies, put your dancing shoes on. If you’re going to die, do it your way. Rise up and fangs up and fuck ‘em all, fuckers.”

Mikey smiles as well. “I fail to be surprised.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Batteries. Gas. Food. Anything. Everything. Supplies are getting low.” He shrugs and looks around. Pete’s got a sweet set-up. Sweet enough to be suspicious. Except that he’s Pete, and that’s one of the few constants in Mikey’s life. Always something new, but never changing.

“There’s a raid in Silver Lake tonight. All Agents in the quarter.” He lets John Lennon fade and then the throbbing bass line of _Under Pressure_ starts up. “We could hit Los Feliz. The Observatory will be just lookouts. Could make a run on it.”

“Lookouts means they’ll be looking out for us.”

“They’ll be watching the long range or expecting a raid. Two guys could do a lot of damage.”

Mikey considers for a moment then shrugs. “I guess there’s no point in being in a gang if you’re not going to fight the man.”

 _Under Pressure_ fades and Mikey hears his own bass line, the promise and familiarity of _Desolation Row_ screaming out defiance. “Sweet little dudes,” Pete assures him. “We are mighty.”

*

He doesn’t mention the car to Pete. They make their way through sewers and worse, avoiding pockets of gas and decay. Mikey’s learned how to breathe, but Pete seems to have trouble, always trying to take too much in, working his systems to overload until his head is spinning. Still, his breaths are shallow and he’s not slowing down as he clotheslines an Agent and gives him a new breathing hole while Mikey gets the bike from where it slides to a stop. The baseball bat is hard against Mikey’s back as Pete presses close, too short to work the bike properly. The Agent won’t last long in the sewer, vermin and more doing whatever Pete’s blast didn’t. Mikey doesn’t look back.

The Griffith Observatory glows eerily, too expensive and power-guzzling to be kept lit up, working on minimal power, most of which goes to the telescope, keeping an eye on the skies. Aliens and zombies they could have dealt with. Mutated bodies and minds, megalomaniacal ideas are harder to fight. Follow along, watch TV. Like lambs to the slaughter, sheep fueling the wrong side of the fight.

Pete taps his shoulder and Mikey swings the bike to the right. The grass is overgrown and infested. Mikey can feel the bugs already. He waits until Pete dismounts before laying the bike carefully on its side. He can hear insects dying as the lash themselves against the fuel coils, burning up like moths on a flame. “Better to burn out than fade away,” Pete whispers, and Mikey wants to ask him if he’s quoting Highlander or Def Leppard, but he realizes it doesn’t matter. Either is acceptable.

He zips his leather jacket up over his mouth and nose, filtering the air that way. Pete’s got a hoodie on, using it for the same purpose, though Mikey knows the cotton doesn’t keep it all out as well. It’s strange to feel Pete beside him, barely making a sound. Pete hates the quiet, hates silence more than anything, hates hearing nothing but the voices in his head. Nurture over nature, Mikey thinks as he slides through the shadows of a copse of trees. Silence keeps you alive. Noise gets you dead. Words are gasoline.

Pete taps Mikey’s shoulder again and nods to a recess in the hillside. There’s a radioactive sticker on it, sprayed and splattered with oil or blood. Mikey’s not sure there’s a difference anymore. Pete’s gun turns the yellow a sickly green as he holds it on the door, back just enough to let Mikey pull it open. It groans, stale air escaping to mix with fresh and Pete disappears inside. Mikey follows him, easing the door shut after sliding a thin slice of plastic over the latch to keep it from catching. He follows as Pete guides the way, doubling back a few times in the face of padlocks Mikey can’t pick and automatic doors with fried circuits.

Eventually they breach the surface rooms and Mikey can smell the battery acid as they stare down into the room from the ventilation shaft. “Fuck,” he breathes in Pete’s ear. “Look at ‘em all.”

There’s a robot outside the room, standing guard. Mikey’s relatively certain he’s more for show, since the residual humming that usually means they’re powered on isn’t vibrating in the walls. He eases the vent off and slips down, dangling dangerously for a moment before he finds purchase on a battered and neglected desk and plants his boots firmly on the cracked wood. He reaches up for the bags, grabbing all five of them from Pete then looking up. He mouths the word ‘stay’ and cocks an eyebrow. Pete frowns for a moment then nods and Mikey slips off the desk silently, filling bag after bag from the shelves littered with power supplies. He takes four of the converters off the top of a filing cabinet as well as the fire extinguisher and emergency flashlight. The bags are heavy as he lifts them up to Pete, watching them sway just below the ceiling for a moment before they disappear.

Standing on his tiptoes, he grabs the edges of the shaft and heaves himself upward, feeling Pete’s hands dig into his jacket, scrabbling for purchase as he helps haul Mikey upward. Mikey holds his breath for the instant it feels like he’s going to fall, and then he’s prone beside Pete, stretched along his body in the too tight space.

“Graceful,” Pete whispers with a snicker before wriggling forward to ease the vent back into place. They make their way back, sliding the bags on the metal shaft, careful to keep them from catching in the joints. Pete’s sense of direction guides them the way they came and eventually they’re where they started, five bags of power richer. Pete glances around then puts a hand on Mikey’s shoulder, tugging him closer so they can’t be overheard. “We can’t take these back on the bike.”

Mikey slides his arms through the handles on three of the bags, one on each arm and one across his back. He zips up his jacket and goes to the door, looking back at Pete. “Cross bridges before we burn them.”

Pete nods and slides the other two bags on his body, following Mikey out and down the slope. There’s been some sort of squall of acid rain or a firefight and some of the grass is smoking. Mikey reaches back and shifts the bag in front of Pete’s mouth, canvas filtering the air for him even further. Pete’s dark eyes catch Mikey’s in the murky air and he holds the bag in place the rest of the way back to the bike.

The bike is covered in insect carcasses and surrounded by desperate night-feeders. Mikey starts a small fire with a brief burst of his ray gun just to scare them off then looks around. The bike’s a quick transport, and it was hard enough using it to support the weight of both of them. There’s no way they can get the batteries back the way they came. Mikey thinks for a minute as he lifts the bike upright, watching the wings and husks fall away.

It’s been dark for nearly four hours now. The sun is going to burn off the dust cloud soon. He strips off two of the bags and sets one at Pete’s feet, strapping the other tight to the back of the bike. “Trust me?”

Trust isn’t really an issue. Even if Mikey takes off and doesn’t come back, Pete’s got three duffels of equipment that can keep him alive for at least six months. Mikey loses more by not coming back than Pete will. But he asks anyway, a low ache from the need to know the answer.

“With all my heart, Mikeyway.”

His full name catches his breath in his throat and he closes his eyes against the vision of water parks and tour bunks, popsicles and frozen kisses. When he opens them again, he thinks he can see the reflection in Pete’s. “Hide. I’ll be back soon.”

The streets are like snakes, hissing under his tires as he pushes the bike as fast as it can go back to the burnt out district of West Hollywood. He leaves the bike to whatever wants to claim it, slipping between buildings and shadows until he finds the Trans Am. He checks the safety measures to make sure it hasn’t been tampered with then he slides in, dumping the battery bags in the well behind the driver’s seat. A deep breath and a hard fist to the button and the engine hums to life, tuned to perfection despite the dust that clogs all of their gears.

He takes a different path back, racing the sun as the air lightens, the dust fighting gravity on the way down. He stops two blocks away and whistles four short, sharp notes. He slides his hand off the gearshift and onto the ray gun strapped to his thigh and whistles one more time.

The answer comes back and inches the car onto the main road. Pete slides in before Mikey knows he’s there, two bags hefted into the back and one settled on his lap. Mikey snaps the car into gear and pulls a fast U-turn, gunning the engine’s turbo drive to get them out of sight as the vibrant hum of Agents swells behind them, the burn of the sun curling like fingers determined to grab them both.

“Where should I drop you?”

Pete pulls something out of his pocket and Mikey glances over to see the small copper penny in his hand. “Where are you going?”

“To start a revolution.”

Pete nods. “You’re gonna need a crew. Get the word out.”

“That’d be good.” Mikey smiles as Pete relaxes into a grin. “You know anyone?”

“Yeah.” He nods and turns the full force of his smile on Mikey, brighter than the burning sun as they disappear into the dust. “I know just the guy.”  



End file.
